


Sparks

by souberbielle



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: But we still love him, Gen, Jehan's a little bit racist, and a little bit classist, and a little bit sexist, and every inch a brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/souberbielle/pseuds/souberbielle
Summary: A showdown between Esmeralda and Frollo - but not the Frollo you're thinking of. This time, it's all about Jehan.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda & Jehan Frollo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Sparks

Jehan was in such a hurry to find his brother than he almost walked right by him.

The plaintive cries of his empty purse had him once again crossing the city to try his luck at coaxing an écu or two out of his stern and reverend guardian, but he had not yet even reached the bridge before he caught sight of the archdeacon. Jehan had seen the familiar bald dome only from the corner of his eye, and he thought for an instant that he must have been mistaken, because it was in the middle of a crowd gathered to watch some juggler or acrobat doing their tricks in the square. Dom Claude had never shown any interest in such entertainment; indeed, he’d grumbled about them disturbing his holy meditation on several occasions.

But the head did, in fact, belong to Claude Frollo. The priest was near the front of the crowd, so it was only thanks to his height that even his hairless scalp was visible, but as Jehan elbowed his way closer, he could see his theory corroborated by more and more features until his brother’s identity was beyond any doubt.

The priest did not notice Jehan’s approach – and not, as the scholar has originally suspected, because he was too lost in his thoughts to even notice the performance whose audience surrounded him. On the contrary, Claude’s eyes were fixed on the dancer with the unblinking focus of a hawk.

For it was a dancer, Jehan saw now, a young Egyptian woman he’d seen several times before, but whose exotic name he couldn’t remember. That explained the size of the crowd – Eramilda or whatever she called herself was a rare attraction; she danced, she sang, she beat her tambourine, she did balancing tricks, and she was pretty enough to make her worth looking at even when she wasn’t doing any of that. And she was accompanied by a magic goat that could do sums and impersonate dignitaries.

That last point probably explained Dom Claude’s presence there, Jehan realized, and why he was staring at her with such fire in his eyes. The younger Frollo sighed. He supposed it had been too much to hope that his brother had finally discovered the existence of fun.

For himself, Jehan was in no mood to watch the Egyptian’s show. The pieces of metal tied in her hair gleamed agreeably as she spun, but the ones in the archdeacon’s purse were far more alluring. When he finally reached Claude, he nudged his arm to get his attention.

The look on his face when he turned to see who was pestering him would have made someone less familiar with Dom Claude go running for cover, in case the priest had Jupiter’s thunderbolts as well as his wrath. Even Jehan quailed for a moment. But he recovered himself in time to start talking before Claude could begin a rebuke.

“Brother, what a pleasant surprise to see you out in the city!” he said, with what he hoped was a winning smile. “It can’t be healthy to spend so much time cooped up in your cell, breathing in all that incense and hermetic fumes. And you a physician! You need fresh air.”

Unfortunately, throughout Jehan’s speech, Claude’s severe expression had hardly softened a bit. That was disappointing, but not unusual. What was strange, however, was the way the priest’s eyes kept darting back toward the dancer, and the way the muscles in his face twitched now and again. Clearly, someone had already put Jehan’s brother in a foul mood, with no thought whatsoever for how that might damage poor Jehan’s chances of spending tonight with his glass full of wine and his bed full of Isabeau.

Nevertheless, he pressed on. “But I am glad I happened upon you, Claude. I had resigned myself to going without –“

“I won’t give you money, Jehan.” Claude hadn’t even let him finish. That _was_ bad. “Go on your way.”

“But you haven’t even heard why I need it yet! It isn’t for drinking or dicing – is that what you think of me?” He tried to look offended, but Dom Claude was no longer even looking at him. He had turned back toward the Egyptian, who was singing now. A few people in the crowd hissed at him to stop talking over her song. But Jehan refused to give up. He tugged on the sleeve of Claude’s cassock and raised his voice.

Midway through a beautifully concocted lie that Jehan was actually rather proud of, the blood drained from Claude’s face and he stared past Jehan’s shoulder as though at a ghost. When Jehan turned, it was the Egyptian girl who stood before them. Evidently, she had noticed the disruption among the onlookers and broken off her song to approach.

“Could I ask you, messire, not to harass the good people of my audience?” Her voice was bright as a chirping bird and her smile was pleasant, but the glint in her eyes was steely and sharp.

“I’m not harassing anyone,” Jehan said indignantly. “My priestly brother is not showing a _jot_ of Christian charity toward his own kin, his only brother, who has no money even for a bowl of broth to chase away the cold tonight!”

As soon as he finished his outburst, even he felt a little sheepish. Stopping in the middle of a performance as impassioned as those he put on for his older brother was like stopping a boulder rolling down a hill, and – encouraged by Jehan’s annoyance at being scolded by a _street dancer_ – this boulder had rolled right into the Egyptian.

The girl’s face was drawn into a curious little pout, and there was something strangely threatening in the way she was tapping her foot, but she kept her voice cheerful as she spoke. “You need money, messire? Well, you needn’t trouble your honorable brother –“ Her words seemed to stumble for a moment as she glanced at Claude – from the power of his glare, Jehan presumed – but then she continued, “You needn’t trouble your brother for that, sir.”

Claude, meanwhile, had spoken not a word in his little brother’s defense, but continued to stand unnaturally still; Jehan could not even see any motion to indicate he was still breathing, though he assumed the fact the archdeacon was still upright meant that he had not been struck dead by the shock of being looked at by a woman.

It seemed Jehan would have to fend for himself. He looked back at the Egyptian, who continued. “As it happens, messire, I know a simple solution to your problem.”

Magic? He knew he should walk away. Continuing to engage with this creature would ruin whatever slim chance remained of getting anything from Dom Claude today. But there was something infuriating about the way the Egyptian was speaking to him – something that reminded him of the way he’d heard her address her goat in past shows. And he really did need money...

The dancer’s hand was on her hip, her head was cocked to the side, and her eyes sparkled. Jehan had the distinct impression he was walking into a trap as he replied, “What’s that, then?”

She gave a quick, dazzling smile. “Why, work! Like everyone else.” This drew an appreciative laugh from the crowd of laborers, merchants, and craftsmen – exactly as the girl had intended, Jehan realized. She’d made the interruption a part of her performance.

Well, then… The scholar stepped forward, so he was as much in the center of the circle of spectators as the Egyptian was. She took one step back, watching him with a wary, appraising look, which he answered with a cocky smile. He could play to a crowd too.

“Work? But I am a student, demoiselle!”

“Study, then,” she shot back.

Jehan’s eyes darted to the place his brother had been standing, but Claude was gone. _A pity_ , Jehan thought, _he might have finally found a woman he'd like_.

Meanwhile, the dancer was still awaiting his answer, her mouth tight with impatience.

“What would you have me study, demoiselle? Greek? Medicine? Law?”

“Oh, certainly Law!” she interrupted. “Then you can work as a prosecutor in the ecclesiastical court, and that is so easy a goat can do it. Isn’t that so, Djali?”

The little goat obligingly plopped on her hindquarters and performed her impression of Jacques Charmolue. That was always a crowd favorite, and Jehan chuckled along with the rest of them.

He waited until the laughter died down, then said, “You make a fair point, demoiselle – and so does your goat, who is easily the equal of any educated magistrate of Paris.” This earned him some laughter and applause of his own, which he paused to accommodate. “But I cannot wait until I am bleating before the ecclesiastical court. I need money _now_. But I assure you it is for a worthy cause.”

“And what cause would that be?”

“Enabling me to go visit the charming Isabeau la Thierrye at the Val d’Amour,” he pronounced, to yet another roar of laughter. One man, clearly personally acquainted with Isabeau’s charms, shouted, “That’s a good cause indeed!”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Egyptian, pressing her hand to her breast theatrically. “True love!”

“The truest money can buy,” agreed Jehan.

“That _is_ a worthy cause.” Her tone and expression held nothing but poignant sincerity, but her dark eyes were dancing. Jehan opened his mouth to speak, but the girl held up a finger to stop him. “Although… perhaps I should simply give the money directly to Isabeau and cut out the middleman.” The audience loved that. The man who’d shouted earlier was guffawing.

“Your logic is impeccable, demoiselle. I see that you are every bit as erudite as your goat.” Jehan paused for another burst of laughter, but there were only a few soft chuckles here and there. He looked at the faces of the crowd again and noted plenty of stout shopkeepers and wizened washerwomen, but few clerks or fellow scholars. This was not a group that had any love for the students of the University. They were rooting against him, Jehan realized, eager to see one of the well-born gadflies of Paris swatted down by a lowly foreign woman.

 _Ah well, why not?_ Jehan thought, and offered his opponent the perfect opening to give the people what they wanted: “Your proposal would certainly speed the silver to its destination. But would a pilgrimage be as edifying if the pilgrim were simply flown to the end of his road? No, indeed! My approach, while less straightforward, would be much more _satisfying_.” He gave the final word its full lascivious weight.

Strangely, the dancer seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though modesty would not allow her to touch on such a subject – modesty! in an Egyptian! – but finally she took up the bait Jehan had thrown. She gave him a slow and exaggerated appraising look, from top to bottom, then said, doubt and disdain oozing from her words, “Not, I think, for Isabeau la Thierrye.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and the show was over. The Egyptian went around collecting coins in her tambourine until the townsfolk dispersed. Then she deposited the money in a pouch somewhere in her skirts, rolled up her other props in her rug, and called to her goat that it was time to go. As she looked back up from the creature, she caught sight of Jehan. The fond smile on her face vaporized like rain on a skillet. Her lips drew into a pout and her large eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Jehan’s easy grin didn’t falter. After a moment, the girl suddenly threw back her head and laughed. Then she drew a generous handful of coins back out of her pocket and tossed them toward the scholar. Without hesitation, he leapt to snatch them out of the air like a dog catching scraps. After he picked the ones he’d missed off the stones, he found the Egyptian still standing there, smiling – not beaming or smirking at him, Jehan thought, not even looking at his face, but smiling to herself _about_ him, as though she did not realize he was still right there. She obviously did realize it, though, as she said – still never looking at him – “You see? Work!”

Before Jehan could even start to formulate an answer, she took off at a run down the nearest street, her goat trotting at her side. She quickly disappeared from view, but he heard her singing in some unknown and bizarre tongue before that too faded away.

Egyptians, Jehan mused, had customs and habits as strange as their garb – that was common knowledge – but he thought he might like this one, in spite of her oddities.

Especially, he thought as he counted his earnings, if she’d be up for a repeat performance.


End file.
